


OMENWATCH

by AughtPunk



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aziraphale is DPS, Aziraphale is a Human, Aziraphale is the worst Overwatch Agent, Crowley is Support, Crowley is a Human, Crowley is the worst Talon Spy, Flashbacks, Human AU, If they were angels/demons they would have spent the Crisis on the Moon, M/M, Maybe go check out some stars, More tags once I figure out what I'm doing with my life, Overwatch AU, So human it is, fite me, idiots to lovers, recall, seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-06-29 18:01:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19835602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AughtPunk/pseuds/AughtPunk
Summary: Me: Man I got a lot of stuff to work onAlso Me: What if I slam my two latest hyper-fixations together and see what happens(Or, Crowley and Aziraphale were enjoying a rather nice early retirement until that gorilla had to ruin things by issuing the Recall)





	1. Five Minutes Post Recall

Middle age suited Aziraphale rather nicely.

Early retirement was lovely. Peace was even nicer. Waking up every morning to his husband beside him was transcendent. He and Crowley spent their days together going to farmer’s markets, walking along the shore, spending mornings in the garden and evenings curled up on the couch. Even the voice in the back of his mind always dreading the worst went silent years back. This, he thought every day, was heaven.

Then he heard the beep.

_Bleep-bloop._

Aziraphale lowered the book he was reading, unsure if he had actually heard a beep or not. It could have been his imagination, or perhaps a car alarm in the distance.

_Bleep-bloop._

No, no, it sounded close by. He checked his phone just to make sure an alarm wasn’t going off. The background image of him and Crowley in Paris smiled back at Aziraphale. Lovely honeymoon, that. Even if they did spend it mostly in their hotel room.

_Bleep-bloop._

Right. Not the phone. Aziraphale quietly came to terms with the fact that he was going to have to get up and actually find the source of the damned thing. Well, if it was a fire alarm Crowley would have to fix it, there’s no way he’s getting up a step-ladder to change a battery.

_Bleep-bloop._

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called out as he wandered from room to room, checking the various alarms as he went. He made it halfway down the hall before Crowley popped out of the bedroom looking rather cross while holding a fire poker.

“Angel! Angel please, darling, love, tell me you--”

_Bleep-bloop._

“--can hear that damned beeping!” Crowley waved his fire poker threateningly in the air to make sure the noise knew he meant business. “It’s not the fire alarms, it’s not the microwave, it’s not any of the holographic displays, and it’s not the bloody alarm clock!”

“Were you planning on smashing whatever is beeping, love?”

Crowley looked confused until he followed Aziraphale’s line-of-sight to the fire poker in his hand. “Oh no, I was using this to intimidate the begonias. But now that you’ve said that--”

“Darling--”

“Fine! No smashing electronics.” Crowley said that, yet he made no move to put the fire poker down.

Aziraphale decided not to push it. “Right. If you’ve already checked that side of the house, and I’ve checked the other side, where on Earth is that beeping coming from?”

_Bleep-bloop._

Crowley and Aziraphale turned their gaze to the heavens. Or, to be more exact, the attic.

“Oh, bloody hell.” Crowley whispered.

“Now dear, there’s a lot of things up there. Could be anything.” Aziraphale said, his mouth suddenly dry. “Perhaps something’s batteries have run out?”

_Bleep-bloop._

“Right. Of course. Probably some old gadget.” Crowley said. He didn’t sound convinced.

_Bleep-bloop._

_Bleep-bloop._

_Bleep-bloop._

“Darling?”

“Yes angel?”

“Don’t put the poker back yet. We might need it.”

***

They never go into the attic.

Neither man talked about it, nor did they ever sit down for tea one day and agree that everything up the attic stairs was dead to them. Yes, that’s how Crowley liked to think of it. One of those treasured filled tombs that some British bastard’s already looted all the good stuff from. A proper final resting place for his and Aziraphale’s shared past. He certainly felt like he was about to commit some light grave robbing.

_Bleep-bloop._

“It’s coming from the back.” Aziraphale said, not moving towards the back at all.

_Bleep-bloop._

“Probably in the old trunk.” Crowley added, also not moving.

_Bleep-bloop._

Aziraphale took the poker from Crowley and straightened his back. Even after all of these years the two of them easily stepped into their old roles: Aziraphale at the lead with his weapon drawn as Crowley watched his back. They weren’t exactly suited up for combat (and Lord knows where Crowley’s medical equipment was) but both were primed and ready for whatever awaited them.

But not rats. Crowley knew damn well he would scream and possibly pass out if he saw a rat up here.

_Bleep-bloop._

The beeping noise grew louder as they approached the old trunk. Crowley wasn’t sure what was even in it. Photos, perhaps? Medals? Old patches that never found their way sewn onto anything? 

Crowley rested his hand between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades. A faint touch to let his husband know that he had his back. One of the few old habits from back in the day he never could shake off.

Aziraphale knelt down in front of the old trunk and unlocked it with a faint _clunk_ .

_Bleep-bloop._

Crowley knelt down beside him and, after squeezing Aziraphale’s shoulder, opened the lid.

Photos. Medals. Old patches.

_Bleep-bloop._

And two blinking green lights at the bottom.

“Oh heavens no.” Aziraphale whispered, his face gone all white.

Crowley didn’t say anything. He reached into the trunk and pulled out his and Aziraphale’s old communicators from the very bottom. Funny, Crowley couldn’t remember burying them so deep. Maybe Aziraphale tossed them in while they were packing all those years ago. It would be like his angel to keep them instead of doing something more practical like dropping them in the ocean or smashing them with a nice heavy rock.

It’s not like you tried to destroy them either, whispered that annoying voice in the back of his mind.

Crowley hit the button on his old communicator--it still had the little snake symbol drawn on the back--and was greeted with a video message alert and its title flashing in bright red text.

_OVERWATCH AGENT RECALL_

Aziraphale hit the button on his own communicator and received the exact same message.

The beeping stopped.

Neither of them pressed play.

“Well angel,” Crowley said, each word cracking at the edges, “it was a nice retirement while it lasted.”


	2. Eleven Years Pre-Recall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL this has a plot now so I'm not even going to estimate the chapter count.

They called him Winged Victory.

Frankly, Aziraphale hated it.

For starters it was a terrible code name. Code names were usually one syllable words for a reason. No one has the time to shout Winged Victory while getting shot at. The nicknames he got off the battlefield were even worse. Azira. Zira. Ezra. Fell. Fail. Raphael. Ralph. The new Overwatch recruits would just call him Cool-Flaming-Guy which he honestly did prefer to Ralph. He also preferred it over how the older Overwatch soldiers would refer only to him as Mercy’s cousin all of the time. Outside of the cowboy, of course. He always framed it as Mercy’s Tag Team Partner.

(Which was completely accurate. Angela and Aziraphale were partnered in almost every mission. Between his blade and her healing they were nigh-unstoppable in combat. Aziraphale also suspected it was because their matching winged armor made for better promotional stills.)

There was only one nickname Aziraphale didn’t mind having pinned to his chest, and truth be told it was far more about who said it than the name itself.

“Hey angel, know where the medical bay is?”

It took twenty seconds for Aziraphale to process the fact that someone had asked him a question, and almost a solid-minute to formulate an answer. In Aziraphale’s defense there were a lot of factors causing said delay:

  1. Aziraphale was exhausted. He had gotten straight from a pre-mission meeting to a mission to a post-mission meeting to a pre-mission meeting for the next mission, and was only still awake through sheer force of will and an extremely strong cup of something that vaguely resembles tea
  2. The taste of said maybe-tea was enough to shake Aziraphale’s faith in the goodness of humanity so much it had thrown his entire moral-center off balance
  3. He knew everybody in Overwatch. This was not an exaggeration. Since the day Aziraphale joined Overwatch he made it his mission to remember every agent’s name and birthday. Every now and then someone would interrupt a meeting just to quiz him on it, and Aziraphale was proud to say he’s passed every single one.
  4. Which made the fact that he didn’t know the man standing in front of him quite an oddity. No one said anything about a new agent arriving today. Which was a shame because then Aziraphale might have been able to prepare himself for the fact that
  5. Good gracious he was _gorgeous_.



(What Aziraphale didn’t know was that his future husband hadn’t noticed the awkward pause because he was tripping over his own mental list that only contained the phrase Oh No He’s Cute.)

“The medical bay?” Aziraphale asked once his brain properly turned over, “Oh dear, are you injured?”

If the expression on the man’s face was anything to go by he had not expected that question. The man looked down at himself as if checking to see if perhaps Aziraphale knew something he didn’t but no, no blood or lost limbs at all. “No?” He replied, not sounding sure himself.

“You do look great. Good! You look good! And by good I mean fine. Perfectly well. Absolutely no injuries on your wonderful--fine-- body! Not a speck of blood anywhere! Not that I would be able to see any blood on the red and black scheme you have- not that I’m saying it’s a bad thing, it looks fantastic on you, no, no I mean it looks good on you. You look good. Healthy. You’re healthy. Why aren’t you interrupting me?”

“Just curious about where you were going with that.” The man grinned and held out his hand, “Crowley.”

“Aziraphale.” He replied as he shook Crowley’s hand, “New?”

“Nah, just transferred over from the Midwest Watchpoint.”

Aziraphale let out a small gasp, “Oh, oh no, oh I’m so sorry. How long were you stationed there?”

Crowley’s grin vanished. Aziraphale was surprised how much he missed it already. “Eighteen months.”

“You poor, poor thing. I was stationed there right after the war. Is the food still--”

“-- Greyish-brown with the consistency of glue but without all the flavor? Unfortunately.”

Aziraphale gave Crowley a small there-there pat on the arm. No one deserved to be stationed at the Midwest Watchpoint. Certainly not this rather striking man who Aziraphale secretly wished wasn’t wearing those dark glasses. Good Lord, barely five minutes and he was already crushing hard. This was a record even for him. “Don’t you worry. The food here has texture and flavor.”

“Thank God for small miracles. The medical bay?”

“Oh? Oh! Yes! I was just heading there myself,” Aziraphale lied, “I can show you if you’d like if you don’t mind the company.”

“Don’t mind at all, angel.” Crowley’s smile returned in full force as he spoke the God honest truth, “you lead, I’ll follow.”

***

“-- one of _everything!_ ”

“Wait, hang on, do you mean every combo or--”

“-- _everything_ , everything.”

Crowley let out a low whistle, “How many calories would that even be?”

“I lost count somewhere around four-thousand,” Aziraphale admitted, “probably in the upper six-thousands at least.”

Aziraphale knew dimly in the back of his head that this was the third time they had looped their path to the medical bay. Crowley either didn’t seem to care or notice how they kept walking past the same doors and windows like in a terrible old cartoon. He himself didn’t notice until about halfway on the second loop when he almost bumped into the same potted plant by the front desk yet again. Talking with Crowley felt so natural Aziraphale didn’t want their stroll around the base to end.

(Crowley would admit later that he in fact had noticed when Aziraphale walked straight past the medical bay. It was hard not too, what with all of the medics running around and the large banner marked MEDICAL BAY over the door. But Aziraphale had been busy talking about his time at the Liverpool Watchpoint and Crowley didn’t have it in his heart to stop him.)

“And he lived? How?” Crowley asked as he placed himself between Aziraphale and the dreaded potted plant as they past by the front desk again.

“I suppose if anyone could survive that meal it would be Reinhardt. He probably burned it off during the following mission.”

“I was thinking more about how I didn’t know anyone could eat that much Taco Bell and live.”

“You know, that’s exactly what Angie said!”

Crowley turned his head just enough to directly look at Aziraphale. Or at least Aziraphale assumed. Damn those glasses. “Angie?”

“Er.” Aziraphale gulped. Ah. Here we go. “Angela. Dr. Ziegler.”

“You mean Mercy? The angel on all the posters?” Crowley’s eyebrows had shot up, “Close, are you?”

“Not like that!” Aziraphale said far too quick, “We’re cousins.”

“You’re--” Crowley stopped dead in his tracks and looked at Aziraphale. Really looked at him. Even with his eyes hidden Aziraphale knew Crowley was studying every inch of his body.

(“I’ll have you know I was doing that before it clicked in my mind,” Crowley would say later on, “there’s a reason why I kept circling behind you during our walk. Lovely view.”

“Wicked old snake.” Aziraphale would reply with a smile. But that was later, much later.)

Crowley snapped his fingers and pointed right at Aziraphale. “You’re Winged Victory.”

And there it was. Well it was a nice walk while it lasted.

“Yes, yes I am.” Aziraphale said, “You thought I would be taller.”

“Honestly I thought you’d be a massive prick. Seems to be a requirement to get on the propaganda.”

Aziraphale let out a cough-laugh-snort which he tried to cover up with his hand. “That’s not nice.”

Crowley grinned. “But it’s not wrong either, is it?”

Aziraphale was just about to agree whole-heartily when he caught the sound of jingly-janglies coming around the corner. As much as he loved to gossip he also knew not to say anything while Reyes’ personal bloodhound was nearby. Crowley must have caught on to the sudden change in Aziraphale’s expression because his whole frame suddenly shifted from wiggly legs to standing straight at attention.

Not even a second later Jesse McCree popped in from around the corner still dressed in what Aziraphale thought as his battle-cowboy gear.

(September 16th. His real birthday that is, not the one in his personal files. That took some doing to uncover, but it was worth it to see the look of absolute shock on the cowboy’s face when Aziraphale wished him a happy birthday.)

“There you are, Boots,” Jesse said with his normal lopsided grin, “You were supposed to meet up with the boss twenty mintues ago.”

Crowley didn’t speak right away, but simply from the way he clenched his jaw Aziraphale knew the reply wasn’t going to be nice. Odd. Here Aziraphale thought everyone liked Jesse. As curious as he was to follow this thread, Aziraphale instead stepped between them. “So sorry, that’s my fault. I was showing Crowley around--since he’s just transferred in from the Midwest Watchpoint-- and simply lost track of the time! He asked for some local eatery recommendations and I got a bit carried away I suppose. I do hope Reyes doesn’t mind too terribly.”

The name drop was a gamble, but Jesse confirmed it with a short nod. Ah. And that explained why he wasn’t aware of Crowley’s arrival. He was Blackwatch. Shame. Such a shame. “Don’t you worry there Zira, no harm, no foul. I’ll just say you had some personal business. Come on Boots, don’t want to keep the boss waitin’.”

“Right.” Crowley spun on his heels to face Aziraphale head-on. “Still on for dinner tonight?”

Aziraphale had not made dinner plans with Crowley. “Yes?”

“Fantastic! I’ll stop by your quarters at eight.” Crowley replied. At no point had he told Crowley where his personal quarters were. “I’m thinking of trying out that oyster bar if that’s alright with you.”

There had been talk of an oyster bar that had recently opened not too far from the base. Aziraphale grabbed that small bit of truth with both hands and squeezed tight. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, dear boy.”

Crowley silently mouthed ‘thank you’ at Aziraphale before heading off with Jesse toward what would certainly be an unpleasant meeting. Aziraphale watched him go, wondering if this counted as being asked out on a date. He had almost reached a decision when another, slightly more derailing thought popped up in his head.

“ _Boots?_ ” 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my old coworker John who did in fact eat one of everything off the Taco Bell menu in one sitting. 
> 
> I can only assume he's now dead.


	3. Ten Years Eleven Months Thirty Days and Twenty-One Hours Pre-Recall

Crowley never got along with his coworkers.

He tried, really he did. Every time he found himself in a new location he did his best to get along with everyone. Yet no matter how hard he tried by the end of the first week either everyone had crawled under his skin or he had pissed off one of the more popular workers and screwed everything up. It was as if the moment he took his first breath on this world God herself smiled down at him and said “ **_May all of his coworkers and fellow students be absolute wankers_ ** ”.

Crowley would admit that he was at fault for no one liking him in Blackwatch. He fucked up mere moments after he first joined up when he tried to break the ice by calling the cowboy--the God Damn Cowboy In the Secret Ops Department mind you--Woody.

The Cowboy smiled in a way that didn’t reach his eyes and in return called him Boots.

Crowley had no idea why his nickname was now Boots.

His codename was Serpent but no one ever called him that. Usually it was either Crowley, or Crawley (as per the gang back at the Midwest Watchpoint), rarely AJ and only once in his entire life Tony. But not Jesse. Jesse called him Boots. And the second he called Crowley that something shifted within the other Blackwatch members. Like if the name was some sort of code word that let everyone know it was okay to be an utter bastard to him. Not the cowboy, no, never him. He was polite. Polite with a capital letter. The kind of Polite that came prepackaged with plans on where to hide his body.

Reyes was a decent fellow though. He wasn’t even upset when Crowley showed up to their meeting late. Instead he laughed it off, wished Crowley luck with his date that night, and immediately turned to business. Nothing too big, just a simple mission to make sure Crowley was half the support unit he claimed to be. Once the details were finalized Crowley was able to slip away with plenty of time to prepare himself because holy heck he _asked Winged Victory out on a date what was wrong with him?!_

He did say yes, said that little voice in the back of his head. You know, the one he pictured with little devil horns and a pitchfork.

You also didn’t exactly give him a chance to say no, said the voice that always wore the obviously fake halo and wings.

“Shut up.” Crowley mumbled to himself as he punched in the door code to his personal quarters. He tended to talk to himself a lot what with no one ever really liking him. Which was also why he wasn’t exactly getting his hopes up for said date. Maybe he could at least get a decent drink before Aziraphale joined the long list of people unhappy at Crowley’s general existence.

(“Oh darling, really? I had no idea it was that bad back then. You always got along so wonderfully with Lena and Winston! Well don’t you fret, I was over the moon for you after our first date.” Said Aziraphale years later when Crowley’s walls crumbled enough to admit such harsh memories.

Crowley would then act hurt and reply, “It took you that long? I fell for you the second you lied about how you were going to the medical bay.”

“Oh love! Wait. Wait, how did--”

“Angel, sweetheart, you were walking in the total opposite direction. Bit obvious, don’t you think?”)

Crowley did take comfort in the fact he had a personal quarter this time. The Midwest Outpost was cramped enough where with four people had to share a single room. He was also the only person out of the four who showered regularly. Walking into a sterile room with nothing but a bed and nightstand was pure heaven. He had a very short inner debate about being productive before giving up and falling onto his bed. A bed! Not even a cot! What did he do to deserve this?

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Right. He knew exactly what he’s done to deserve this. Crowley pulled his phone out and was mildly amused by the fact he was being called by a pizza place located in Iowa this time. There was another shorter debate over just throwing his phone across the room but that uprising was crushed before it truly began. He answered the phone with a terse “Talk to me.”

A female voice laughed deeply on the other end, “Such awful manners! Perhaps that is why you were sent to the Midwest Watchpoint in the first place, mi serpiente?”

Oh good, Kerrigan was in a happy mood. Maybe this call wouldn’t result in his early demise.

(Her name wasn’t Kerrigan. No one knew what her real name was. Years down the road she would go by the name Sombra and become nothing more than a rumor to the population at large. Even later still she would be called Liv, or Livvy, or Ollie, or Olive, and by one special person she would be known as Olivia. But at that exact moment in time she went by Kerrigan.)

“I thought I was sent there for asking the wrong questions.” Crowley said as he stared up at a water stain on the ceiling.

“Do you really believe that?”

No, Crowley thought to himself. He was sent there for asking questions, _period_. “What do you want?”

“Just checking in after your first busy day of being a traitorous spy for the forces of evil! I’m sure you’re already getting your hands dirty finding out all the information you can. Maybe even sway some of the newer agents into becoming freelancers? That is your forte, is it not? Why the boss is paying you the big bucks? Perhaps you have made a friend?”

Crowley briefly thought of Aziraphale and his infectious warm laugh. He wouldn’t say he had fallen for the man, but he certainly was double-checking his parachute and waiting for the plane doors to open up. “The cowboy hates me.”

That got a dramatic gasp from Kerrigan. “Not Jesse!”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Jesse loves everybody!”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“You must be mistaken!”

“I called him Woody.”

There was a long pause from the other side of the phone. It was possibly the longest he had heard Kerrigan go without talking. “Yes. That would do it. What did he call you in return?”

“Boots.”

“Hmm. That’s a new one. I’ll have to look into it. Anything else to report?”

_I met an angel._

“There’s a water stain on my bedroom ceiling in the shape of a duck.”

Kerrigan laughed. If it meant anything Crowley was pretty sure it wasn’t forced. “That is a no. I will contact you within a week unless there are any sudden developments. Oh, and Anthony? You might want to figure out how Commander Reyes knew you had a date tonight. Might make things easier for you in the long run.”

***

An hour before Crowley’s maybe-date-maybe-not someone knocked on his personal quarter’s door. As much as it was a welcome break from his current panic about what to wear it was a tad odd. Did anyone know this was his room? They could ask Athena, he supposed, assuming that she was slightly more helpful than the AI back at the Midwest Outpost. Crowley put on his sunglasses, answered the door and was rather surprised to find Aziraphale on the other side.

“Hello Crow--oh. Oh.”

Which was fitting as Aziraphale was rather surprised to see Crowley wearing a silk bathrobe and nothing else.

“Angel!” Crowley let out a squeak and tied the sash around his waist even tighter. “What ah, you’re a bit, I thought--”

“Yes!” Aziraphale responded as he stared down at his feet, “I rather thought, well, I wanted to check, ah….”

Both fully grown men trailed off into silence. This had to be a date, Crowley thought, only dates went this badly. He searched for something to say only for Aziraphale to beat him to it.

“Sorry for bursting in like this, but I wanted to check to see if you had actually asked me out or if it was simply a ruse to get out of further work tonight. No hard feelings if so, I just need to know so I can plan my evening accordingly.”

Crowley didn’t know how to respond to that. He knew in a vague way that he had to respond at some point. Yet try as he may the only words that came to mind were mostly poetic ones about Aziraphale’s eyes. Something-somthing crystal blue lake. Summer sky. Fields of cornflowers. Lord he was already lost. Aziraphale was frowning. He had to say something! Anything!

“Bit of A, bit of B.” Crowley said as suavely as possible. “My plan was to ask you properly once I got to your quarters. Didn’t seem right tricking you like that. Er, sorry for forcing your hand.”

The got Aziraphale to brighten up. “Oh, oh heavens no! Don’t even say such a thing. Trust me when I say that if I had any issues with your proposal I would have made myself quite clear.”

There was something in the way Aziraphale said that which implied making himself clear involved his flaming sword. Crowley sure as hell was going to ask him out now. “So?”

“Er, so?”

“Do you want it to be a date? We could also just,” Crowley vaguely waved his hand, “go out for oysters in a platonic sense.”

A wave of emotions passed over Aziraphale’s face until he settled on a soft smile. Whatever doubt may have lingered in those eyes--Strike Team uniform blue his brain unhelpfully supplied--vanished. “How about we see where the evening takes us? I’m sure no matter which path we end up on I will enjoy your company.”

Crowley’s stomach did a funny little flip and suddenly he knew he was fine with that outcome as well. As long as this odd angel was by his side. “Deal. Pick you up at eight?”

“Oh, why can’t we just go no--” Aziraphale snapped his fingers, “you’re naked.”

“Yup.” Crowley even stuck his leg out from under the bathrobe to prove it.

“Right. Can’t go out for oysters naked.”

Crowley shrugged. “We could, just wouldn’t get far.”

Aziraphale let out that adorable laugh of his again. “Depends on what time of day I suppose.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a challenge.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking dear boy.”

“I’m not going to forget about this.” Crowley pointed from Aziraphale to himself and back again, “one day, when you least expect it, I’m going to make this naked run happen.”

Aziraphale smiled, and when he smiled it was far brighter than what little effort the sun had put in that day. Crowley was certain of it.


	4. Ten Years Eight Months Pre-Recall

“Let’s see… I would fuck Ana, marry Reyes, and kill Jack.”

Aziraphale half-listened to his teammates’ chatter as his eyes scoured the horizon. The mission had gone eerily well. If there’s one thing he’s learned as a field agent it’s that nothing ever goes as planned. So the fact that they were able to escort the payload to their base without a peep from anyone was a cause for worry. Or at least Aziraphale thought so. His teammates weren’t as paranoid as he was.

Keiy, the team sniper, made a tsk-tsk noise and shook their head. “Okay, killing Jack I can get behind, but marrying Reyes? Have you not seen how he treats his family?”

The questionee, their recon officer Ciro, frowned. “Reyes has a family?”

“ _Exactly_.”

The three of them were camped out on the roof of the base more out of boredom than any need to keep watch. Ciro’s radars had been silent to the point he kept turning them off and on to make sure they were working. Even Keiy had put their sniper rifle out of arm’s reach. The two old friends were sharing a bottle of something-or-other as Aziraphale kept watch. Just the sound of their laughter was enough to make Aziraphale’s heart twinge.

“What about you, Azzy?” Keiy asked. Aziraphale still didn’t know how to feel about that nickname. “Who would you--”

“Reyes, Jack, Ana.” Aziraphale replied without a second of hesitation.

Ciro let out a low whistle, “Really? Kill Ana?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Jack would make a good husband and I do not wish to make any major life decisions with Reyes.”

“Damn Azzy, she’s got a kid and everything!” Keiy shook their head, “I knew you were bit of a bastard but still!”

Ciro gave his friend an accusatory poke in the side. “ _You_ said you were going to kill Reyes! He has a family!”

“Yeah, and I’m also a cold hearted sniper. I’m expected to murder people with families. Azzy’s supposed to be an angel! All… fluffy and soft. Halos and harps and shit.”

“As someone who went through twelve years of Catholic school, I can say that’s absolute bullshit.” Ciro said, with another poke. “Angels are all flaming wheels covered in eyes with lion heads and a dozen wings. There’s a reason they always announce themselves to humans with Do Not Be Afraid. Otherwise some poor shepherd is going to snap and go run off into the desert, screaming.”

Aziraphale had heard this conversation before. Not between Ciro and Keiy, but between other agents that went on missions with him. They were always slightly put-off by Aziraphale. Maybe it was how he looked like a boring librarian but wielded a flaming sword and knew how to use it. Maybe it was because everyone had an easier time wrapping their heads around Mercy--angel, healer, savior-- than Aziraphale-- angel, warrior, killer.

(“Which is ridiculous, if you ask me. Everyone should have been far more terrified of Dr. Ziegler than you, angel. I accidentally woke her up from a nap once and thought she was going to bite my head off.”

“Darling Angie may seem scary sometimes, wait, hold on, was that around when Shimada was brought in?”

“Yep.”

“Oh. Oh thank goodness you’re still alive.”)

The shrill beep of their communicators halted the conversation dead in its tracks. Aziraphale tapped his and said, “Unit Gamma reporting in.”

“This is base,” Came in Ana’s voice, causing Aziraphale’s stomach promptly drop through the mantle. Her being on the other line was always a very bad sign. “What’s your status? Where is your recon officer?”

(May 1st. Not really a secret but not exactly well known either. Aziraphale only knew because Fareeha asked him for spelling help while making her Mom a birthday card.)

Aziraphale glanced over to Ciro and Keiy, who were both far too drunk for this. He silently mouthed ‘you owe me’ at the pair before continuing, “Ciro’s turned in for the night, Captain. Nothing to report. Payload secure, no injuries, ready to be picked up in the morning. Is, is everything alright?”

The silence on the other end of the line was worrying. He shared a mildly panicked look with Ciro and Keiy before Ana returned. “Everything is fine, Agent Fell. Unit Gamma will be picked up oh-six-hundred tomorrow.”

Whew, that was good.

“And after your mission debriefing I want you to report to my office immediately. Do not report this to your fellow agents. Over and out.”

Nope, nevermind.

“Toodles.” Aziraphale replied long after the communication line clicked off.

***

After what must have been the longest post-mission meeting of his life Aziraphale made the somber march to Ana’s office. He had spent the meeting going over every potential reason he may have been called in secretly. Sure, maybe he wasn’t the best agent when it came to strictly following orders. Sure, maybe part of his mission expenses always included a nice dinner out for everyone. Sure, maybe he’s been rather distracted of late with his friendship-maybe-dating with Crowley.

(Were they dating? The trip to the oyster bar had gone splendidly, and so did the various dinners after that. But it wasn’t like they… did anything, as it were. Not that Aziraphale minded. He’d never had an interest in sex. He wasn’t against it, he just enjoyed far more and far less messy ways to spend an evening. Kissing was rather nice though. He could easily imagine kissing Crowley. Maybe lay a kiss on that snake tattoo of his, and see where inspiration strikes him to kiss next. There had been that one time they were walking back to base and Crowley had taken his hand and Aziraphale could have sworn he heard a choir of angels singing--)

“ZEE!”

Aziraphale’s train of thought violently derailed and crashed into a busload of orphans as he found himself suddenly picked up off the ground in a bone-crushing hug. While the list of agents who were able to pick him up was rather short, there was only one person who ever called him Zee.

“Fareeha!” Aziraphale laughed as he hugged her back, “What on Earth are you doing here?”

(October 28th. Fareeha always used her birthday as an excuse to make Halloween a four-day event. No one ever complained.)

“Looking for you!” Fareeha laughed as she finally put Aziraphale down. Like all the other older agents he still had a hard time that sweet little always-hiding-behind-her-mother Fareeha had grown up into a proper amazon. She now towered over him with a muscular frame that put most of the agents to shame. “Had to say goodbye to both my guardian angels before I left.”

There was a certain feeling of pride and absolute terror felt by those with grown children in their lives. Even if Fareeha wasn’t family by blood they certainly shared the same bonds found between nieces and their Uncle who had no idea how sports worked. Aziraphale clasped Fareeha’s strong hands within his own and smiled despite the fact that a small part of him was screaming rather loudly. “So you’re off to join the service, then?”

Fareeha nodded, “Leaving tomorrow morning for bootcamp.”

Oh yes, so much inner screaming. Aziraphale’s smile faded as he gave Fareeha’s hand a fond pat. “Your Mother really doesn’t want you to join Overwatch, does she?”

Fareeha’s smile vanished as well. “It’s been four years since I turned eighteen, Zee. Four years! At least this way she won’t be able to keep turning my application down for lack of experience. I have to at least try, right?”

Aziraphale, like Ana and so many other agents, did not want Fareeha to join their ranks. None of them wanted to face the possibility of sweet little Fareeha dying alongside them. So many of them had spent Fareeha’s teen years to trying to talk her out of following her mother’s path. But even as the voice inside Aziraphale screamed at her to stay he knew it was useless. Fareeha had been born and raised within Overwatch. Nothing on this planet would keep her from dying there as well.

Don’t do it, he wanted to say. You’ll die. Even if you don’t physically die part of you will. You’ll suffer. You’ll be forced to make horrible choices. You weren’t there during the Crisis, you weren’t there for the worst of it. The world is barely holding together as-is and we are a breath away from losing everything we fought for. Get an office job. Stay off the field. Don’t make the mistake the rest of us made. You deserve better than Overwatch. Overwatch doesn’t deserve anyone as good as you.

Instead Aziraphale squeezed her hand and forced a smile back onto his face. “You shall do wonders, my dear.”

Fareeha hugged him again, but this time was thankfully far less bone-crushing than the previous one. “Thanks, Zee.”

(“You know Angel, I don’t think I’ve ever met Fareeha.”

“Yes you have, darling. She was at the funeral.”

“Going to have to narrow that down a bit there.”

“She was the one who got horrifically drunk with Jesse and almost created an international incident by punching the UN representative.”

“I meant you have to narrow down which funeral, love.”)

***

Aziraphale found Captain Ana Amari to be absolutely terrifying. Even moreso than Morrison or Reyes. See, you knew where those two stood. Morrison was always the one on stage, facing the crowds, being the handsome face Overwatch needed. Reyes? You could count on Reyes sneaking around the shadows being all mysterious and stabby. But Amari? Never in the light, never in the shadows, forever existing in the penumbra between. Aziraphale would have an easier time predicting where drops of rain would fall than Amari’s motives.

He was truthfully slightly relieved when he walked into Ana’s office and found Reyes there as well. That meant this was going to be a mysterious-shady-stabby thing. Aziraphale could deal with mysterious-shady-stabby. “Captain Amari. Commander Reyes.”

(June 2nd. Doesn’t celebrate it. Rumor has it that Reyes used to go out for drinks with Jack on his birthday but not anymore.)

“Agent Fell,” Ana replied, “at ease.”

(Aziraphale did not relax. In retrospect he may have never once relaxed in his life. At least not without the help of a good book and a bottle of wine.)

“Fell,” Reyes began, “what do you know about Swan Lake?”

This wasn’t a mysterious-shady-stabby thing. Now Aziraphale was truly lost. “I’m sorry?”

“The ballet.” Ana said as if that somehow helped.

“Oh, um, well I know it’s considered one of Tchaikovsky’s most famous works despite it being bit of a flop when it first debuted in 1877. Well I say that, but the initial run did go on for over six years and forty showings which is nothing to sneeze at. I believe the masses won out over the critics in the end there. Would you believe the critics said the music was too noisy, and the choreography too ‘unimaginative and altogether unmemorable’? Utter nonsense if you ask me! You know, I actually saw a show where they included the _pas de deux_ Tchaikovsky wrote for Anna Sobeshchanskaya to go along with Marius Petipa’s choreography. See, originally there was a _pas de six_ in the third act--”

“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.” Reyes announced to the universe in general. “Perfect. You’ll be added to the mission roster immediately. Report to meeting room Delta-A tomorrow at seven hundred.”

With that Reyes left the room, leaving a stunned and confused Aziraphale behind. Aziraphale looked to Ana, but all he got in return was a shrug in return. “I, uh, if there’s nothing else…?”

“You are dismissed Agent Fell. But one thing before you go.”

Ana reached over and lifted Aziraphale’s chin with a single finger so he would see her smile.

“So. You really think you could kill me?”


	5. Ten Years Seven Months Three Weeks Pre-Recall

Blackwatch worked on a “Need to Know” basis. To be more precise, this meant that Reyes only told you what he thought you needed to know. All Crowley knew about the upcoming mission was that he had to go to an opera and pretend to enjoy it. He also had to pretend to be a rich bastard throwing money around to impress his date as a means of distraction. 

They needed as much as the staff as possible to be following him in hopes of an astronomically-large tip. Beyond that, Crowley knew no other details, ‘to be safe’. He was more than aware that when Reyes said those words he meant the safety of the mission and not his own.

Everyone in Blackwatch worked under the same curtain of darkness. Rumor had it that Jesse always knew about Reyes’ plans, but Crowley wondered how true that was. The longer he worked for Blackwatch the more he suspected that Reyes didn’t know the whole story about what was going on either. Jesse was just too damn loyal to the man to notice.   


Bloodhound, Aziraphale had called Jesse once mid-way through a night of drinking. Willing to hunt down anyone just because the boss told him to. His angel then added that, much like a loyal old farm dog, Jesse would no doubt meet his end with a bullet to the back of the skull. Maybe, Aziraphale slurred, Reyes would even try to pass it off as an act of mercy. No need to let the poor thing suffer any longer than it had to.   


After Aziraphale’s drunken comment Crowley realized three things. One, his friend’s thoughts were far darker than he’d like to put on. Two, he would give anything to find out how strong that deep current within Aziraphale flowed. And three, he had fallen hopelessly in love with his dear dark angel.   


Perhaps that’s why he suggested Aziraphale for the mission.

“Oh dear, oh dear, is my bowtie on straight? How’s my hair? Crowley, can you check to make sure that my collar isn’t turned up weird in the back?”

Take that very moment for example. While the rest of Blackwatch was running around checking their armor and weaponry, Aziraphale looked like he was going to explode from fashion self-doubt. How could Crowley not be charmed?   


He gave Azirapale’s shoulder a squeeze. “You look fine, angel.”

Aziraphale futzed with his bowtie, clearly not happy with its current state. “I just feel a bit out of place, that’s all.”

Couldn’t argue with him there. Crowley briefly glanced around at the other Blackwatch agents. Aziraphale was in fact the only person there not wearing black and red. Even Crowley had chosen to go with his favorite clingy black dress this evening.   


“I mean, a box seat at Palais Garnier? Good heavens! I’ll stick out like a sore thumb!”

“It’s a theater. Theaters are famously known for having everyone look in one specific direction. No one’s going to even notice you.”

“Actually the Palais Garnier was designed specifically so people in the audience could see each other clearly. That’s why there’s no balconies and the boxes on the side of the stage are clear as day.. No point in being rich in the mid-1800s if you can’t show off to the slightly-less-rich.”

Crowley turned to politely glare at the agent who spoke. “Thank you, Fio.”

“My word!” Aziraphale beamed, “Fio, I had no idea you were knowledgeable on the subject.”

Fio shrugged. “I was going to be part of the distraction team until your boyfriend here volunteered you for the mission. Can’t blame him. You’ll look much cuter hanging off his arm than I would.”

This was not the first time Crowley had debated about killing Fio. That being said, she was the one Blackwatch agent he thought about killing the least. There were days he wondered if this was all part of his, ahem, part-time job’s plan. Certainly made sending top-secret Overwatch information their way easier.   


(The truth was Crowley rarely sent over anything important. His real skill was in getting people to leave Overwatch in a huff. Just drop a suggestion here, ask a few questions there, and suddenly agents were off seeking employment elsewhere, either by their own will or after being forcibly removed from the building. And if said ex-agents then ended up working for Crowley’s part-time job, well, then that was their own business.)

“ _ Thank you _ , Fio.” Crowley said through clenched teeth.

Fio poked Crowley in the arm. “So you’d better get me something from the gift shop.”

“Does the theater have a gift shop?” Aziraphale asked, his cheeks now adorably flushed pink.

“I doubt it.” Crowley said, “Just because a building’s old doesn’t mean there’s automatically going to be a gift shop inside. Really.”

Fio shrugged. “Gotta squeeze money from tourists somehow.”

“Well don’t come crying to us because we couldn’t pick you up a keyfob with the Eiffel Tower on it.”

***

There was, in fact, a gift shop inside the Palais Garnier. Crowley wasn’t sure if he was more annoyed because Fio was right, or because of the general disgust he felt about capitalism as a whole. Gift stores in museums always felt wrong to him. Like if they were somehow cheapening the art itself by selling overpriced postcards and t-shirts. This did not stop Crowley from purchasing an extremely tacky magnet of a cartoon opera singer wearing a horned-hat and everything for Fio.   


“Crowley look! It’s honey harvested from the roof of this theater! Do you think they would be able to ship it back to ba-er, home?”

Aziraphale had been silent for most of the trip, but once they stepped into the theater life had returned to his eyes. His smile could do laps around the honey he was holding when it came to sweetness. Crowley had been in a mild state of panic ever since Fio dropped the whole ‘boyfriend’ word right in front of them. He kept expecting Aziraphale to say something, anything, but so far nothing. Maybe Aziraphale was waiting for him to make the first move? Or he was overthinking this. Again. As he’s done with every relationship he’s been in.   


Crowley took the honey from Aziraphale’s hands and placed it back on the shelf. “No paper trail leading back home, sugarplum.”

Aziraphale’s expression went straight from mildly disappointed to mildly confused. “Sugarplum?”

“Yeah, since we’re supposed to be,” Crowley shrugged, “you know.”

“Oh. Right. You are of course correct my, um, my sweet honeysuckle?”

Both men were able to keep a straight face for nearly a whole ten seconds before cracking up.

“It’s terrible--”   


“Absolutely horrendous--”

“I don’t know how McCree does it--”

“I much prefer it when you call me angel, my dear.”

Crowley’s heart melted on the spot. He took Aziraphale’s hand and laced their fingers together before he could second-guess himself. “And I rather like it when you call me ‘my dear’.”

“I was thinking of trying out darling for a bit.” Aziraphale murmured squeezed Crowley’s hand, “If that’s alright with you.”

As much as Crowley wanted to gather Aziraphale in his arms and kiss him passionately in the middle of the gift shop, they were on the clock. And also in the middle of a gift shop. Not the best place for a first kiss. Assuming Aziraphale wanted to kiss him. “How about we take it out for a test drive over dinner?”   


***

While the Palais Garnier was a shining beacon of opulence and history Coco, the restaurant located within, was what Crowley would call a modern art nightmare. Gone was the gilded painted ceilings and statues of Gods that decorated the theater’s gorgeous interior. Instead the restaurant's stark-white walls were curved and bulbous to the point where Crowley thought it looked like a tidal wave of milk frozen in place seconds before it took out the world’s largest supply of uncomfy chairs.

“Darling, are you sure?”

Oh, Crowley thought, he does rather like the sound of darling. “We’re supposed to cause a fuss, remember? And nothing says a fuss like a cheese platter, a bottle of wine far too good for us, and a dish with the word ‘truffle in the description.”

Aziraphale’s frown wobbled for just a second. He might not have known Aziraphale long in the grand scheme of things, but Crowley had already picked up on his tells. The lip wobble meant not only was Aziraphale a small push from giving into temptation, but he was also holding a large sign saying PLEASE PUSH ME with multiple arrows pointing directly at him. The arrows were neon. And also covered in glitter.   


“And dessert, of course.”

“If we must.” Aziraphale said, just a beat too fast. “I will say I’m not sure about your truffle idea. Always thought they were overhyped to justify the price. Much rather try the beef tatar. Oh, or perhaps the bay prawn? It comes with miso scented rice!”   


“How on Earth do you have rice that’s scented but not flavored?”   


“Suppose they steam rice over miso broth?”   


“Seems like a bit of effort to keep any flavor from getting in the rice.”

“Perhaps it’s scented because it’s flavored with--” Aziraphale eyes wandered over Crowley’s shoulder and quickly snapped back to his face.   


“What is it angel?”

“Darling, do you, ah, do you know what this… date? Is about?”

Crowley mentally searched the mission dossier before deciding on “It’s our eight-year anniversary, isn’t it? I was going to wait for ten years but everything in our schedules lined up perfectly and I thought better now than never. I was thinking we could hit the Louvre tomorrow. They have a new exhibit on some recently unearthed Da Vinci sketches I’ve been dying to go to.”

Aziraphale shot Crowley a look and dropped his voice, “No dear,  _ what _ is this  _ date _ about?”

Oh. Crowley cleared his throat to chase the last of his old-married-couple fantasy out of his head. “Need to know basis, and I didn’t need to know. Why?”

“Because your boss is dining with a rather flirty man easily half his age-- don’t look!”

“You just told me Reyes is on a date!” Crowley hissed, “How am I not supposed to look?”

“Might not be a date. Maybe I just misread oh no, no the young man is running a finger around the rim of his wine glass, this must be a date.”

“Probably an informant. Wouldn’t be the last time an agent had to flirt for information.” Crowley took a sip of water before he caught the odd look on Aziraphale’s face. “What, no, I don’t! I never get those missions because--”

_ Because I’m taken. _

“--because.” Crowley took a large gulp of water. “Bit odd it’s Reyes and not McCree, the cowboy would flirt with a boulder if you let him. Probably get the boulder in bed with him, too. The informant must have a type. Or this is all a set-up to cover the fact Reyes is having an affair.”   


“No!”   


“It’s possible!”

“Darling!”

“It would be a fantastic cover, wouldn’t it? Hush-hush secret mission with an unlimited budget? Have two agents wine and dine each other to cover his tracks? Oh that extra bottle of chardonnay? Must be those agents’ doing. I’ll waggle my finger at them in a very mean fashion next time I see them! Bet he has the rest of Blackwatch running around chasing their own tails for plausible deniability. That way he gets a lovely evening out with his person of choice on Overwatch’s dime.”

“Oh no, it’s simply impossible.”   


“Why? Because Reyes is,” Crowley blanked for a second as he tried to remember anything about Reyes’ personal life. Husband? Wife? Partner? Married? Unmarried? Kids? “Has a family?” He settled on before taking another sip from his glass.

“No, because he’s madly in love with Jack Morrison.” Aziraphale said with an amused smile that went perfectly with Crowley’s over-the-top spit-take.

(“You did that on purpose! You were waiting for me to drink so I’d spit it out!”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about my love.”

“Of course you don’t, you adorable bastard you.”)

After gaining control of his coughing fit Crowley got it together long enough to rasp out “ _ What? _ ”

“I’m sorry darling, I keep forgetting you’ve only been here a few months.” Aziraphale reached over and offered Crowley his cloth napkin. “It’s bit of a well known secret among the agents. He was more obvious back when Overwatch first started, of course, but you can still see the love in Reyes’ eyes whenever Jack is near.”

“Are you sure? Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen them together and not having a row.”

Aziraphale sighed, “Yes, well, I didn’t say it was a happy love story. What with Jack being married to his job, and Reyes… well. Reyes. Reinhardt tells it the best, you should go for him for more details. He’ll get extra sappy if you get a few pints in him.”

Crowley was thankful that he was wearing his dark glasses--as he always did-- if only because it helped hide the wave of emotions that overtook him. As much as he tried to deny it Crowley was a romantic at heart. His personal tablet was more or less a storage vessel for fluffy romance where everyone ends up happy, usually married, and occasionally having children. He thinks of the few interactions he’s seen between Jack and Reyes. Always arguing, shouting, never happy. A typical example of a couple who’s staying together for the kids. It just so happens the kids are a world-wide agency of heroes.   


Reyes is in love with Jack, Crowley thinks, but Aziraphale hasn’t said a word about Jack loving him back.   


Crowley could think of no worse hell.

But he doesn’t say that. He keeps the sickening sensation of falling deep down in his stomach and smiles instead. “Well now I’m even more impressed by the fact it’s our eighth anniversary. Bloody rare for an Overwatch romance as it were.”

Aziraphale picked up his menu and said without missing a beat, “Considering you forgot our seventh anniversary it’s a miracle we’re celebrating an eighth.”

Crowley did his best to sound annoyed when he replied, “Says the man who forgot my birthday three years in a row.”

“Your birthday is February 29th! It didn’t exist those years!”

“Well, you, wait, how do you know my birthday? I never told you that.”

Aziraphale let out a funny noise and quickly raised his menu up just enough to hide behind it. “So what are you thinking of getting, my love?”

“You pick, angel, you always know what’s best for me.” Crowley said as he ducked behind his own menu to hide the blush on his cheeks.


	6. Ten Years Seven Months Three Weeks Six Days Twenty-Three Hours Pre-Recall

To the shock of absolutely no one, Aziraphale was a big fan of the theater.   


Aziraphale would like to think he would have been a professional actor in another life, perhaps a director or stage manager. He had gone from small parts as a child in community plays, to major leads as a teenager, and was more than ready to dedicate his life to the art when he heard God’s calling. For most people that meant they were either going to dedicate their life to religion, or have gone a bit off in the head, or a combination of both. His calling was different.

_ Pick up the sword. Join them. The world needs heroes. _

(There were only two people he ever told this to. One was Angie, who had confessed to her own calling, and dear Crowley. Aziraphale had avoided the topic because he knew Crowley was a self described ‘militant agnostic’ when it cane to spiritual matters. To his surprise Crowley didn’t laugh in Aziraphale’s face but instead said he was thrilled that Aziraphale hadn’t been called on the be a priest. Would have made the whole love-at-first-sight thing a bit awkward no doubt.

Later that afternoon Aziraphale found Crowley in the garden, his head bowed and quietly thanking anyone who may have been listening. Even if only the flowers heard his prayers.)

Aziraphale didn’t regret his choice yet there was always a small part of him that yearned for the stage. Unfortunately for his fellow agents that meant Aziraphale was ready to sing Broadway tunes at the drop of a hat and rather heated discussions about how much he hates the second act of Into The Woods. He was also rather proud to say the only disciplinary notice he ever received was after getting into a fight with Reyes because the commander had called Andrew Lloyd Webber a punk-ass bitch.

(He might not have gotten out of that fight alive if it wasn’t for Reinhardt charging into the fray screaming about Starlight Express.)

So for Aziraphale to find himself in a box seat at the Palais Garnier was nothing short of a wish come true. The fact he got to experience it with Crowley made it all the sweeter. Not only because he cherished their time together, but also because Crowley was so amazingly out of his element Aziraphale found it rather delightful.   


“Aren’t these the bloody-stupid-expensive seats?”

“That they are, my darling.”

“Why? They’re not even facing the stage! We’re just sort of staring out at the boxes across from us! Which I can’t help but notice is empty. I thought people wanted to sit in these.”

“Box five is always kept empty for The Phantom.”

Aziraphale couldn’t see Crowley’s eyes through his dark glasses, but the rest of his face was able to express the unique emotion of you’re-fucking-with-me without them. “The Phantom.”

“Yes.”

“Of the Opera fame?”

“The very one.”

Crowley laughed. It started as a normal chuckle but quickly devolved into a hoarse belly-laugh that left the man gasping for air. If the other theater-goers weren’t looking before they certainly were now. Aziraphale fought that particular wave of anxiety and instead focused on his two brand new worries of ‘has Crowley snapped?’ and ‘Can Crowley die from laughing?”. He touched Crowley’s shoulder only for the other man to slide down against his seat.

“I’m, I’m s-sor, I’m,” Crowley, still slouched in a very uncomfortable fashion, took off his sunglasses to wipe the tears from his eyes. “I’m sorry love, it just, everything just hit me all at once.”

“Everything?” Aziraphale echoed, carefully tucking Crowley calling him love away for later.

“Everything everything!” Crowley struggled to sit up straight, but the laughter was still coming. “It’s the year 2065 and there’s omnics and holograms and hover-cars and gorillas on the Goddamn Moon but, but there’s a bloody seat left open for the Phantom of the Opera just in case he feels like popping in after a couple hundred years of non-existence! It’s just so, so...”

“Stupid?”   


“Human.” Crowley finally pulled himself up enough to sit like someone with a spinal cord. “No, not human. Bet Omnics are just as ridiculous as us with their own legends and superstitions and what-not.”

(Crowley was correct. Omnics were made by humanity, after all, it was natural for us to rub off on them. Common superstitions include never letting your battery go below 15% or you’ll be unlucky till you’re fully-charged again, defragging at the stroke of midnight was just asking for trouble, and always thank any technology you come across that predates the Omnic Crisis. One must always honor those who came before.)   


"I suppose humans, well, all of us must be a little silly sometimes.” Aziraphale said, “It’s what makes life worth living. The theater wouldn’t be the same without its ghostlights and wishes of bodily harm instead of luck. I mean, it would be the same but it wouldn’t be the same-same, if that makes sense.”

Crowley lifted his head and smiled. “Humans need fantasy to be human. To be the place where the falling angel meets the rising ape.”   


“Oh, I know that quote! Pratchett, if I’m not--”   


Aziraphale’s words died on his lips as he saw Crowley’s eyes for the first time. Crowley had always worn his dark glasses and Aziraphale knew better than to pry. He had personal theories of course. Everything from Crowley being sensitive to the light to any number of eye-disorders that could affect their appearance. The one possibility Aziraphale never considered was that they would be  _ gold _ .

Not gold-gold. More of a bright sunny yellow. Daffodils. No, more orange than that with a hint of red. Fire. A sunset. There were no white to his eyes, just that one color through-and-through. He had never seen anything like them before. Aziraphale was so swept away by the color of Crowley’s eyes it took him half a second to recognize that the pupils weren’t entirely round, but pointed at the top and bottom. Oh, Aziraphale thought, like a snake. That’s why his codename was Serpent. It took Aziraphale the rest of said second to realize he had been staring slack-jawed at Crowley’s eyes this entire time. The eyes he went through painful lengths to hide.   


“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice cracked. His lips moved but no other sounds would come out.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, “your eyes--”

“Don’t--”

“They’re beautiful.”

Crowley’s pupils expanded into full black circles that nearly eclipsed the gold of his eyes. “Wh, what?”

“They’re beautiful.” Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s cheek and gently tilted his head so he could get a better look. “Gorgeous. Marvelous. Do you know that they sparkle in the dim light? Like stardust. Yes, just like stardust. Your eyes are made out of the same light as stars.”

“Urk.” Crowley said instead of an actual answer.

The strangled noise Crowley made was enough to shake Aziraphale from his beauty-induced stupor. He suddenly became aware of not only how close their faces were, but how his hand had slithered from Crowley’s cheek to the back of his neck. It would be easy, far too easy to lean in enough to close the gap between them. One might argue the gap was only there on a physical level anyway. They had erased the distance between themselves long ago over a plate of overpriced oysters and cheap white wine.   


The physical gap between them may had been erased right then and there if Crowley hadn’t said what came out from between his lips next.   


“The devil gave them to me.”

Music washed over the pair as the orchestra began the overture. The rest of the world floated back to them in pieces. The dimming of the lights, the murmur of the crowd, the sensation of Crowley pulling away from Aziraphale’s grasp. Aziraphale wanted to scream. He wanted to drag Crowley out of the damned box seat and, and, and! And he wasn’t sure! Talk to him, look at him, worship him, something! Anything but let Crowley slip away.   


Crowley moved to put his glasses back on.

Another time, another place, Aziraphale would have let him. There were countless worlds, you see, Filled with countless versions of the two of them, their fates always tightly braided together. In so many of those worlds Aziraphale would stand back and watch silently as Crowley rebuilt his walls. Those Aziraphales would wait, understanding that the foundation weakened with every reconstruction. Those Aziraphales were patient. It was a virtue, after all.   


This Aziraphale was not.

This Aziraphale was a warrior, an angel of the battlefield, a hero, and impatient as hell.

Aziraphale plucked the sunglasses out from Crowley’s hands and tucked them away out of sight. “You won’t be able to watch the ballet with these on, dearest. Don’t worry, I’ll keep them safe.” He then leaned over enough to plant a kiss on Crowley’s snake tattoo before turning to the stage. As much as he wanted to look at the expression on Crowley’s face he knew it was important for his dearest to make the next move. He may be impatient but he wasn't a monster.   


Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand within his own, lacing their fingers together as the curtains rose.   


***

If the theater was heaven, then intermission was most certainly hell.   


Yes, Aziraphale thought, this must be what hell is like. None of that fire and brimstone nonsense. Just wall-to-wall crammed bodies of people fighting their way to the bar to get a criminally overpriced drink. And the bathrooms! The only reason he and Crowley weren’t still standing in line is because they were able to figure out the code for the employee break room--it was 24601, unsurprisingly--and snuck in to use theirs.

Getting near the bar, however, was another issue. The throng of bodies formed almost a solid wall between them and any chance of getting through the second and third acts tipsy. They were currently trapped against the side of the grand staircase unable to move with no clear exit. Aziraphale watched the crowd for any signs of weakness until he was snapped out of his concentration by Crowley literally snapping his fingers.

“Amélie!”

Aziraphale tore his eyes away from the crowd and to his dear friend awkwardly shoved against his side. “I’m sorry?”

“Amélie, that’s the name of the woman playing the swan. I couldn’t place her name and it’s been driving me crazy.”

“You uh, know her?”

“Hardly. She’s the fiancée of one of Reyes’ friends. Met her once at the Marseille Watchpoint. Thought she was a bit stuck-up, myself. Not shocked to see she’s the what’s it called, the lead dancer.”   


“Prima ballerina.”

“Explains her attitude, really.”

(" _ No! _ ”

“Took me ages to piece that puzzle together.”

“Oh. Oh my heavens. I had no idea it was her! She looked so different by the end. Oh. Oh Crowley! Do, do you think…the mission...?”

“I don’t know, angel. I don’t know.”)

“Lovely dancer.” Aziraphale added before he scanned the crowd once more. Every now and then caught a glimpse of a Blackwatch agent peppered among the crowd. Sometimes as an usher, a waiter, and one rather bored looking janitor more focused on cleaning up spilled champagne than they should be. Aziraphale only vaguely knew their faces from the pre-mission briefing, save for the cowboy of course. He learned long ago it was pointless to learn anything about the other Blackwatch agents. Too much turnover.

Well. Save for the rather stunning Blackwatch agent crammed next to him.   


“Really, I thought her dancing was a bit wooden.” Crowley took a deep breath and pressed a black credit card into Aziraphale’s hand. “Right. You’re the front-liner, you should be able to fight your way to the bar, right?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Couldn’t be harder than Bastion units I suppose. What would you like, darling?”

“Whatever you’re having. Then tip the bartender the largest number you can think of. Oh, and angel,” Crowley lightly squeezed Aziraphale’s shoulders. “I rather like it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You calling me darling. I know we were taking it for a test run over dinner and I wanted to say I approved.”

Aziraphale’s smile grew, “It does fit rather well, doesn’t it?” He had half a mind to forget the alcohol--and the ballet, the mission, the rest of the universe in general--and continue this train of thought but Crowley let go of his shoulder and took a step back. Well, he would just have to continue that line of thought later. Gathering his strength Aziraphale steadied his frame and marched straight into the chaos which was a slightly-drunk theater crowd.   


Crowley had been correct. Aziraphale’s bread-and-butter was to get to the front line and cause as much damage as fast as possible with little or no regards to his own status. That’s what the supports were for, no matter how many times Angie threatened to kill him herself. Getting through the crowd was thankfully slightly easier than charging through an active battlefield. Aziraphale reached the bar with only a few bruises and one stepped-on toe and he considered that a win. By yet another miracle he actually caught the attention of the bartender right away instead of sitting there like an sub-par bump on a log.

“Excuse me, yes, I would like a Juniper Sling please and--”

“--you can put it on my tab.”

Aziraphale couldn’t place the voice, but he recognized the man who slid up next to him at the bar as Reyes’ lunch date. Good gracious. Now that the young man was up close Aziraphale could see why the lunch date happened. He absolutely oozed charm, and bedroom eyes that would force most monks to take a cold shower. The man smiled lazily at Aziraphale, as if his only passion in life was ogling older men who resembled English teachers. “Oh. Thank you, dear boy, I appreciate the gesture but I must say I’m already spoken for.”

The younger man gave him a well-planned grin and leaned just a little too close. “For someone ‘spoken for’ you sure couldn’t take your eyes off me during lunch.”

_ Oh.  _ Oh dear. Aziraphale had in fact kept looking at the younger man over the course of his meal, but it was strictly to keep Crowley updated on the lunch-date between him and Reyes. Not that this young man was bad on the eyes. Well. Aziraphale thought the green hair was a bit much but to each their own. “Oh! Oh, oh you misunderstood! You see, the man you were dining with is,” Aziraphale went through a list of words before he found the one that was the smallest-possible-lie, “an acquaintance of mine.”

The young man raised an eyebrow.

“An acquaintance of mine who is also spoken for, as it were.”

“I see.” The young man’s grin only grew. “That’s never stopped anyone before, and it’s never stopped me. Wife? Husband? Dozen kids at home? Tell me, what is it this time?”

Aziraphale sat up straight and stared at the young man dead in the eyes. “Unrequited love.”

The young man’s bedroom eyes vanished, only to be replaced with something akin to dread. “Oh. How bad?”

“Very bad, very one sided.”

“Fuck.” The young man let out a low whistle. In a blink of an eye his flirty expression was gone, the charming ooze shoved back into a container, and miraculously the top three buttons of his shirt became buttoned again. The playboy was gone, leaving behind a cold-stone sober man who could only slightly comprehend the severity of the bullet that had missed him.   


Aziraphale reached over and gave the young man a pat on the hand. “There there, my dear boy. I’m sure there’s plenty of old rich men here who would love to have you on their arm for the rest of the evening.”   


The young man laughed long and hard at that before his mouth settled into a far more natural smile. It looked far better on him than the sly smirk, or the teasing grin Aziraphale had seen earlier. The bartender placed a drink in front of Aziraphale only for the young man to pick it up and use it to gesture back at the crowd. “You might want to go rescue your date from that witch.”

Aziraphale’s cry about his pilfered drink--which, in retrospect was fair, the young man did pay for it--was cut off by a crackle of anxiety in his chest about Crowley. His eyes scanned the crowd until he was able to pick out his lovely date talking to what looked to be Crowley’s long-lost twin. There were subtle differences but the main ones were there: tall, thin, standing as if they never received proper directions on how humans stand, and flaming short red hair. They could have easily passed for the other if it wasn’t for the fact Crowley was wearing that stunning silky black-number while the other person could best be described as an evil masculine version of Mary Poppins. They were even holding black umbrella that Aziraphale somehow just  _ knew _ had an animal-shaped handle.   


The biggest difference was the fact that while the stranger looked rather pleased with the situation Crowley did not. For someone who wore dark glasses all of the time Crowley was amazingly easy to read. Right then, for example, Crowley’s facial expression could be best described as mid-root canal surgery that had gone terribly wrong. He was freaking out, in pain, and had no easy means of escape. Aziraphale gave up all pretense of politeness and pushed his way through the crowd to get Crowley faster. He was almost through to the other side of the crowd just as the stranger reached over and removed Crowley’s glasses.

Crowley’s golden eyes went wide.

The stranger laughed loud and clear.

Aziraphale’s heart _screamed_.

Things after that got blurry. Both Aziraphale and Crowley don’t remember the exact events that followed, but were able to piece together a timeline of the next thirty seconds for the mission report. A rough estimate of the events follows:   


  1. Agent Crowley froze unable to move as
  2. Agent McCree, dressed as a waiter, moved through the crowd towards Crowley and the stranger holding a tray of drinks not knowing that
  3. Agent Fell had come to the realization that the best way to save Crowley was to create a distraction by sticking out his leg and tripping
  4. Agent McCree, sending the agent and his drinks flying. This may not have been so bad if it wasn’t for the fact Agent McCree rolled with the fall, slamming him straight into the legs of
  5. The Stranger, causing them to fall backwards into a large puddle of overpriced champagne and broken glass and sent not only their umbrella but also the pilfered sunglasses flying, only for
  6. Agent Fell to grab said umbrella and use it to hit the glasses back to
  7. Agent Crowley who not only caught them but slipped them on in a fluid motion that was ‘absolutely spectacular according to   

  8. Agent Fell before he signaled to
  9. Agent Crowley make a break for it. The agents then ran out of the theater together, neither noticing that on their way out they had both accidentally trampled over
  10. Agent McCree.



Considering neither Crowley nor Aziraphale heard a peep about the events they both assumed Reyes hadn’t read the report at all. Probably for the best.   


(This wasn’t true. Not only did Reyes read it he also called Jack and Ana into his office to do a dramatic reading. He drew a little diagram of Jesse falling over and everything. It was the first honest laugh the three of them shared in ages.)

Time only caught up for Aziraphale and Crowley after they burst through the Palais Garnier’s entrance way, flew down the few steps and hit the sidewalk running. They sprinted down the street together hand-in-hand, neither man slowing down until the theater was hidden from their sight. Only then did they stop long enough to duck into an alley and catch their breath.   


“That,” Crowley said as he leaned back against the rough brick wall, “Angel, that, that was, what  _ was _ that?”

Aziraphale tried to reply, but all that came out between his lungfuls of air was “Glasses. Your glasses.”

“My what?”

“Your glasses!” Aziraphale finally got out, clutching his stolen umbrella tight, “That person, whoever they were, they took off your glasses and, and you didn’t want them to!”

Crowley went silent, waiting until his gasps settled down before asking “How did you know?”

“Your shoulders. Your, when you’re angry you hunch your shoulders. And, and you were reaching for your hidden knife which meant you thought you were in danger and you were doing that thing with your mouth where you try to look disinterested which you only do when you’re scared and I, I just had to...had to save you. I’m sorry about your dress.”

“My,” Crowley looked down at himself. His heels were gone, his stockings in ruins, and the side of his dress had torn open to reveal far more leg than intended. “Oh. Right. It’s okay. Really angel, it’s fine.”

A lie. Crowley was shaking. Aziraphale reached out and touched his arm as gently as he could. “Anthony…”

Crowley laughed, only causing his shaking to worsen. “That’s the first time you called me that. I think I like darling better.”

“Anthony,” Aziraphale took a step closer, noting that Crowley’s body began to relax, “who was that person?”   


What did they do, Aziraphale did not ask.

Did they hurt you, Aziraphale also didn’t ask.

Do you want me to smite them, Aziraphale also didn’t ask, but really wanted to.   


Crowley’s lips trembled, forming and striking down words before he finally found the words to answer Aziraphale’s spoken question. The way his voice shook answered two of the unsaid ones, and painted a picture so vividly for the third it made Aziraphale’s blood boil. “The Devil.”

At this point in the post-mission report that Aziraphale wrote down that he and Crowley left the alley and went back to the rendezvous-point to call in for an emergency pickup.   


What Aziraphale didn’t write down was how he pulled Crowley into his arms and hugged him as tight as he could. He didn’t mention the way Crowley buried his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, or how perfectly the other man fit in his arms. In return Crowley didn’t write a word about how soft Aziraphale was, or how he wanted to bask in his radiating warmth for the rest of his life. Crowley didn’t say a word about the faint kiss he pressed to the base of Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale said nothing of the way Crowley raked his fingers through his hair, seemingly holding onto his curls for dear life.   


It didn’t occur to either of them to mention the rain.

“Rain.” Crowley muttered when a fat drop of water dropped on his head.

“Ngh.” Aziraphale replied when another drop got him square on the back of his neck. He wiggled his arm away from Crowley just enough to open up his ill-gotten umbrella over them. They remained entwined even as the rain picked up, drowning out the sounds of the city around them until only the pitter-patter of raindrops on the umbrella remained.   


“We’re missing the ballet.” Crowley finally said when the white noise around them became too much.

“Don’t care. You?”

“Nah. Not really. How does it end?”

“Depends on the production. Usually the Swan dies. Sometimes the Prince dies too.”

“Well bugger that. Hate sad endings. Always feels like lazy writing to me.”

Aziraphale, still buried against Crowley’s chest, let out a snort. “Don’t let Reyes hear you say that.”

“Tell me about it, that melodramatic bast--wait. Hang on.” Crowley finally lifted his head enough to look at the umbrella shielding them from the rain. While the outside was black the inside was covered in a complex white geometric pattern. His eyes moved down to the handle carved into the shape of a rabbit. He pushed his sunglasses up to the top of his head and stared down at Aziraphale before remarking, “This is Dr. O'Deorain’s umbrella.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale said. The devil had a name. Good to know.  


“Why do you have Dr. O'Deorain’s umbrella?”   


Aziraphale mumbled something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Stole it.”

“ _ You stole it? _ ”   


“I didn’t mean to!” Aziraphale finally lifted up his own head to meet Crowley’s golden eyes, “I was in full panic battle mode I just happened to grab the first sword-like thing I could find and, and, and anyone who hurts you doesn’t deserve a nice umbrella anyway! Maybe I’ll keep it as a trophy! Er, unless you want me to get rid of it, Anthony.”

Crowley smiled and pressed his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “There you go calling me Anthony again. How would you like it if I started called you Aziraphale?”   


Aziraphale gulped. He rather liked the way Crowley said his name. He rather liked Crowley. More than liked, once he thought about it. He cupped Crowley’s cheek with his free hand and returned that same loving smile. “I would much rather prefer to be called your’s.”

There were, as mentioned before, countless worlds filled with countless versions of Crowley and Aziraphale. While there were always differences between each iteration there were always certain constants woven within the very fabric of their story. The rain is a constant, as is the act of one shielding the other from the storm. There are other patterns woven through these stories as well. Gardens. Rebellions. War. Hope. The formation of their own side. A shared life. Cottages by the sea. And love. Always love.

You see, there is always a storm. There’s always a wing, or an umbrella, or any number of objects to protect one from the rain. In most of the stories this is the beginning of their tale. In this story, however, there is a slight difference in the timing.

In this story they have both fallen long ago.

In this story their first kiss is shared during the storm.

In this story neither man pays much attention to the weather at all.


	7. Seven Days Post-Recall

Crowley and Aziraphale had spent the past seven years building a life together. It took less than a week to take it apart.   


They had watched Winston’s Recall message together over and over again until the batteries on their old communicators ran dry. When the silence became too much they finally spoke, whispering and planning for what was to come. There would be no sitting on the sideline and ignoring this message. Because, as Crowley put it, “What are the chances Winston remembered to blind carbon copy us?”

“None.” Aziraphale had replied, easily bringing up the list of living agents that were sent the Recall.   


(They then proceeded to spend a good hour going over each agent, taking turns voicing their surprise at which ones were still alive. Angie visited on the holidays, of course, and Lena would drop in occasionally for tea. But Reinhardt? Crowley thought the old bastard would have gone out in a blaze of glory by now.)

Little by little Crowley and Aziraphale undid their lovely cottage by the sea. Books were donated. Plants given as gifts. Knick-knacks and momentos sent to trustworthy friends. Furniture and art were sold. Money got tucked away in secret bank accounts. The attic was emptied. Armor was adjusted. Weapons were polished. Their peaceful lives scattered to the wind.

Yet it wasn’t until Crowley put his old shatter-resistant dark glasses on did the reality of it all hit him.   


“This is it.” Crowley said mostly to Aziraphale, and some to the empty living room they stood in. “It’s over. It’s really over.”

“Might have been a bit foolish to assume it would last.” Aziraphale whispered.   


“Seven years. Only seven years of peaceful living.”

“More than what most of the old watch got.”

Crowley couldn’t find any words within himself to reply with. He was too busy thinking about how much it hurts to see Aziraphale wielding his sword again. Or how heavy his old Asclepius Staff felt in his hands. The only thing worse than wielding their old weapons was the fact they still knew how to use them. They were still  _ good _ with them. He hated this. He hated all of it.   


Darker thoughts in the back of Crowley’s mind beckoned, only to be chased away as Aziraphale took his hand. Fine. He didn’t hate all of it. Just everything except for his better half. Crowley lifted their joined hands and lightly pressed his lips against Aziraphale’s knuckles. 

Aziraphale blushed. Even after all of these years he still blushed.

“So,” Crowley said as he lowered their hands, “who do you think will show up first?”

“You know darling, I’m not sure. We left on a rather sour note with both sides. Whoever is more miffed that we’re still alive I suppose. Although I did assume Lena would have shown up by now. London’s not that far away. Perhaps she’s busy assisting Winston?”   


“Or we’re that low on the Recall list,” Crowley said, “and even lower on Talon’s to-kill list.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Is it weird I find that a bit insulting?”

Crowley’s thoughts on being snubbed by both sides were cut off by a sharp knock on the door. This was unusual for a number of reasons. There was the fact that they weren’t expecting anyone, swiftly followed by the knowledge that if either side showed up on their doorstep they certainly wouldn’t knock.   


(One would think Overwatch would knock, but this is wrong. If there was one thing Overwatch and Talon had in common it was a flair for the dramatics and a mad posh for entering places via the window.)

They exchanged worried glances before Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s hand and went to look through the door’s peephole. Aziraphale’s expression went from worried, confused, to somehow even more confused before he simply opened the door. On the other side of the doorway stood a young woman wearing a plaid dress and round glasses giving her a look best described as ‘1800s Schoolmarm’. She looked up from a weird mechanical device in her hands and gave both men a polite smile.   


“Is this the residence of,” She glanced down at the device, “Anthony...Crawley?”

Crowley twitched. “Crowley.”

The young woman adjusted a knob on the side of the odd machine. “And a one....Ezra Fell?”

“Aziraphale. Aziraphale Fell.”   


She raised an eyebrow.   


“Well. Aziraphale Ziraphale Fell to be precise.”   


Her eyebrow only rose higher. So did Crowley’s. Aziraphale turned to pout at his dear husband. “Oh don’t give me that look Mr. Anthony Justajay Crowley! You are in no position to talk about names!”

“She’s not either!” Crowley said, turning his attention back to the young woman. “Who the bloody hell are you?”

“Hmm? Oh! Of course, where are my manners?” She said in a flat accent that screamed American, “My name is Anathema Device. I’m here because Agnes said there was over a ninety-nine-point-nine percent chance of us meeting today.”   


“Uh huh.” Aziraphale said as he put on his best ‘talking to a crazy and potentially dangerous person’ smile. “And Agnes is…?”

“This.” Anathema held up the odd machine in her hand.

“The machine tells the future.” Crowley said, using his ‘talking to a crazy and potentially dangerous person’ glare.   


“Predicts the future, to be more exact. One must always account for free will. I find that it’s best to go along with whatever Agnes says. That way I don’t have to adjust the settings as much.”

Crowley and Aziraphale stared at the young woman in silence.

“What?”

They exchanged glances.

“I’m not crazy.”

Both men nodded as if agreeing that yes, there’s no way that the person who just said they weren’t crazy was crazy.   


“Anyway,” Anathema said as she brushed off their looks, “I’m here to let you know that there’s an eighty-six percent chance that you’ll be hit hard enough in the abdominal region to crack your lower-right rib within the next sixty seconds. There’s also a ten percent chance for inner-bleeding and a four percent chance of the blow being fatal.”

“Wait,” Said Aziraphale, “by what? Who? Him or me?”

“Hmm?” Anathema hummed, fiddling with the odd device once more.   


“Which one of us are you talking about?!” Crowley growled.   


Anathema checked her machine one last time before pointing at the space between Crowley and Aziraphale before saying, “Her.”

Aziraphale moved first, the flat of his sword slamming hard into the air between them. A burst of purple-pink light went off only to fall onto the floor in the shape of a woman. Crowley didn’t stop to find out whose side she was on, or if that four-percent chance came up in their favor. Instead he grabbed onto Aziraphale’s arm and, with a half-mumbled apology, shoved the strange woman out of the way before running out of the cottage. Together Crowley and Aziraphale bolted down a path through the forest and to safe transport.   


Deep down both Crowley and Aziraphale knew they would run faster if they stopped holding hands.

Both Crowley and Aziraphale chose to ignore this fact.   



	8. Ten Years Pre-Recall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (CW: Implied Suicide. Off screen, not any of our heroes, but still heads up)

For the first time in his entire Overwatch career Crowley couldn’t start this story with “it was an ordinary mission”, because it wasn’t. Which was unheard of. Every Overwatch mission was ‘an ordinary mission’ until everything went tits up. No pre-mission briefing ever started with Morrison or Gabe saying Listen up, this one is going to be an absolute shit-show of a mission that’s only going to get worse it goes.

Except this time.

“Listen up,” Gabe said as he gave Blackwatch a proper fuck-you glare, “this one is going to be an absolute shit-show of a mission that’s only going to get worse as it goes.”

“Great pep-talk, boss.” Jesse said from his spot on the wall. Jesse always leaned there during the briefings. Close enough to talk back to Gabe while keeping an eye on all of the exits.

Gabe shot the cowboy a look. “Not going to sugarcoat this one, kid. Athena picked up an emergency beacon from one of our informants twenty minutes ago in Hanamura saying all Hell has broken loose.”

“Hanamura?” Crowley said, twiddling his healing staff in his hands. There had been so many missions of late he didn’t bother to put it away anymore. Except on date nights with his angel. Those were far more important than any calls to battle. “The tourist trap? With all the cherry trees?”

(Crowley had a lot of opinions on Hanamura’s ever-blooming cherry trees. Most of them involved drunkenly ranting about how they were freaks of nature kept alive on the tree equivalent of a life support system and use far more resources than a normal tree would without all of that lovely recycling-carbon dioxide thing that made trees rather nice in the first place. Around that point in the evening Aziraphale would lead him to bed, calmly saying yes dear, I know dear, and would lay next to him until Crowley passed out.)

“It’s more than a tourist trap.” Gabe replied, “it’s home to one of the oldest Yakuza families in the country. One that used to be the most powerful before the death of their leader. Now it’s just a squabbling mess of rats trying to claw their way to the top. Which means a lot of people are getting caught in the crossfire.

The Blackwatch agents murmured, but Jesse was the only one brave enough to speak up. “So what’s that have to do with us? Peacekeeping is Overwatch’s business.”

“Yeah. It is. That’s why they’re coming with us.”

The mummer stopped dead in its tracks. Crowley looked over at Jesse and was honestly surprised to see the look of shock on the cowboy’s face. “Boss—“

“Overwatch will be officially going to help keep the peace and do their normal goody-goody business while we keep track of which rat bastard wins. No interference. We’re only there to watch. Understood?”

The message was directed at Blackwatch as a whole, but it was Jesse who replied with a soft “Yes sir.”

Crowley could feel unsaid words hanging in the air around Gabe. He wasn’t telling them the whole story. Not a shock, but as far as Crowley knew he never held back from Jesse before. He also knew asking questions was asking for trouble, but when did that ever stop him? “And?”

Gabe narrowed his eyes at Crowley. “And?”

“And what part of us just sitting back and watching will make the mission a shit-show?”

“The part, Boots,” Gabe said stressing the nickname that even after all these years never faded, “where we’re going to have to bail out Overwatch when they fuck up. Again.”

***

Angela was nervous.

Aziraphale had never seen his cousin nervous. Sad? Yes. Angry? Oh yes. Gunning down an enemy spy in the middle of a fancy dinner without a stitch on? Unfortunately. (Took a lot of scotch to get that mental image out of his head.) But nervous wasn’t a word normally pinned on Angela’s chest.

“I do think that napkin is as torn up as it’s going to get, Angie.” Aziraphale whispered over their shared take-out meal. He suspected his surprise take-out meals were the only food Angela had been eating over the past week. She certainly had that pallor on her face that only developed when there was more coffee in her body than blood.

“Buh?” Angela said, slowly blinking until she looked down at the torn napkin in her hands and the shredded remains of the napkins that had fallen previously. “Oh. Whoops.”

“My dear Angie, when was the last time you slept?”

“Slept last night.” Angela said as she poked at a fried nugget of some sort of meat.

“When was the last time you slept in your own bed?”

Angela poked the fried bit again.

“Tell me you’re at least sleeping on a cot and not at your desk!”

“The desk is comfier than the cots.” Angela said as she finally looked up. Oh, it hurt Aziraphale to see his cousin like this. They were all that was left of the family when all the dust had settled. Now Angela seemed determined to join the rest of them.

Aziraphale reached over and took Angela’s hand. “Please, Angela, tell me what’s wrong.”

She struggled for words a moment before taking a deep breath. “Agent Beddestyr. Hen Beddestyr. He, he—“

Aziraphale squeezed her hand. “I heard. None of us knew. Don’t blame yourself for—“

“It’s not that!” Angela said, the words coming out too harsh. “He, he was still warm when I got to his quarters, Zira. I used my bionic ray but, but...it wasn’t strong enough. I couldn’t…”

“Angie…” Aziraphale awkwardly shuffled his chair closer to Angela’s in order to give her a proper hug. “Don’t blame yourself for what happened. Your bionic field has saved so many lives! You’ve performed absolute miracles with your staff! Why, I would be down at least three organs if it wasn’t for you. You’ve saved so many of us agents in the nick of time.”

“Except one.” Angela said, her eyes staring far past the food on her desk. “I’m modifying my staff.”

That caught Aziraphale off guard. “I’m...sorry?”

Angela nodded to herself. “I’m increasing the nanomite output and doubling the amount of energy currently being processed by the biotic field. Normally this would greatly increase the amount of shielding and almost triple the weight, unless I can rig the coolant system to absorb the shock of the blast--”

“Angie,” Aziraphale said slowly, “I may be dating a medic but I don’t understand a word you’re saying--”

“I’ll be able to bring the dead back to life.”

Aziraphale didn’t mean to let go of Angela’s hand, but his body recoiled on its own. Angela pulled back as well and gave her cousin a nervous smile. “Recently dead. It’s possible with current methods, of course, but I mean in a consistent manner! Something that will _work_ instead of _might_ work! If I make the effect zone wide enough I could bring multiple people back at once!”

“Angie?”

“Zira?”

“Do you remember what you made me promise to you after you when we joined Overwatch?”

Angela sighed. “To stop me if I ever sound like I’m going full mad scientist.”

“And do you know what you sound like a right now?”

“A mad scientist?”

Aziraphale gave Angela’s arm a fond pat. “Angie, I admire your dedication to the field of medicine. You know that. And I am awestruck by your passion to save the lives of your fellow agents. Really I am! But you need to rest. Get a good night’s sleep, eat a full breakfast, take a good long shower and before you start on this project of yours. I don’t want to see you getting dragged out of the medical bay screaming that you’ll show them, you’ll show them all. Promise me you’ll at least sleep in a bed tonight?”

“Well--”

“A bed that isn’t in the medical bay.”

Angela let out a playful huff. “Fine. But only if you go get some sleep yourself, Mr. Stays-Up-All-Night-Reading. Although I have heard you have been spending more time in bed of late. Hmmmm?”

“Are you trying to insinuate that I ‘get up to things’ in bed with my boyfriend?”

Angela waggled her eyebrows.

“Occasionally.” Aziraphale said under his breath, hoping his face wasn’t as bright red as it felt. From the way Angela was giggling he had a feeling the answer was yes.

**_Agent Fell, please report to the Mission Briefing Room immediately.I repeat, Agent Fell, please report to the Mission Briefing Room immediately._ **

Like that whatever joy in the room evaporated, leaving Aziraphale and Angela in the cold once more. Aziraphale stared up in the vague direction of Athena’s voice in hopes of answers that wouldn’t come.

“There’s no planned missions.” Angela whispered, “Something happened.”

“Now dear, just because I get a sudden mission alert in the middle of the night doesn’t mean--”

**_Agent Ziegler, please report to the Mission Briefing Room immediately. I repeat, Agent Ziegler, please report to the Mission Briefing Room immediately._ **

“It’s bad.” Aziraphale finished, the words heavy in his mouth.

***

No one questioned it when Crowley he traveled with Overwatch to Hanamura instead of with the rest of Blackwatch. The second his eyes’ met Aziraphale’s on the tarmac everyone knew it would be pointless to tear them apart. Even the newest of recruits learned quick that The Serpent and Winged Victory were attached at the hip and nothing short of a second Omnic War would tear them apart.

(The veteran agents knew this too. They would watch the pair in the shadows with their own heartaches, wondering when the two of them would crack. No relationships between Overwatch agents lasted. Overwatch agents weren’t allowed to have happy endings. Well. Except Torbjorn. But he didn’t count.)

Aziraphale had taken Crowley’s hand the second they sat down and didn’t let go until the ten-minute arrival alert went off. Neither of them had said a word during the entire trip. They didn’t have to. Silence was just as welcomed in their relationship as laughter and tears, each taking their turn when the two of them needed it. At that moment all that was needed was the touch of the other’s hand as a reminder that they weren’t going into whatever awaited them alone.

No, wait, that’s a slight fib. They did talk at one point.

“What’s she doing?” Crowley whispered into Aziraphale’s ear. Across from them sat Angela, who spent the entire flight over working on her staff. He was no stranger to her Caduceus Staff, as his own Asclepius Staff used a similar design. What interested him was the fact for the life of him he couldn’t tell what she was doing. She was adding things. Taking things off. Adding more things. Shoving a screwdriver in places that most certainly voided the warranty.

“She’s trying to find a way to raise the dead.” Aziraphale whispered back.

“Well, isn’t that the point? Being a healer an all?”

Aziraphale gulped. “She’s the one who found Hen.”

Crowley let out a low whistle. “Ah. So dead-dead.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Standing on top of a castle screaming for lightning to strike her creation sort of bringing the dead back?”

“I’m afraid so.”

They watched Angela work in silence, leaning against each other as the ever-coming future quickened its pace to the present. Crowley closed his eyes, etching the details of how Aziraphale’s hand felt in his, how warm his angel was, and quietly reminding himself he world burn the world if anything happened to him.

(What Crowley didn’t know is that Aziraphale was thinking the same thing, down to the world-burning.)

“Angel?”

“Yes, love?”

“Please don’t let Angela turn me into a zombie.”

“Only if you promise the same for me, darling.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you everyone for your kudos, your comments, and your encouragement! 
> 
> If you enjoy my writing please check out my other fics or head to [my website](https://aughtpunk.com/want-to-help-out/) for information on my non-fic writing and how to help me out. 
> 
> Be sure to tag me as @AughtPunk on [Twitter,](https://twitter.com/aughtpunk) [Tumblr,](http://aughtpunk.tumblr.com) or [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/AughtPunk) if you want to say hi, or ever make any fan content of my work. No need to ask permission, art and fic is always welcomed!
> 
> \- Fish


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